


Here is a Map (With Your Name as the Capital)

by FallingOnBrokenWings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: But Sam doesn’t mind, Dean being a little slow, Falling in love in the Impala, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Realization, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingOnBrokenWings/pseuds/FallingOnBrokenWings
Summary: Maps rarely tell you where you’re going, but they always tell you where you’ve been.





	Here is a Map (With Your Name as the Capital)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I know it’s been a while. My muse left me for a little bit, but now she’s back and demanding that I write about these idiots falling in love. So, here I am, falling in love with these idiots falling in love all over again. Enjoy!

Sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, his brother driving with not much more purpose than to feel the purr of an engine, Dean realized that falling in love with Sam was a lot like an adventure. Its journey was traced lazily across the map of the U.S that lay mostly unused in the bottom of their glovebox.

There were places circled in red marker—where the diner there served _the world's greatest pecan pie_ which ended more smeared across Sam's face than actually ingested or that time Dean and Sam had set a makeshift christmas-tree on fire trying to put candles on it—that marked little patches of their life which stood out on the criss-cross of highways and state lines. Places full of good times and high spirits that deserved a second pass-through.

There were also big black Xs full of guilt and mistakes—like that motel they got kicked out of because Dad couldn't pay, or where the shritga incident happened— that no amount of sharpie could blot out entirely.

But they are Winchesters, so they could damn well try until the marker ran empty.

The rest, however, could be completely overlooked. Someone could point at any mark on that map and Dean could say confidently _that's where I fell in love_. It wasn't all the big names, marked by little black stars, or the highway with numbers and turn offs. It was all the specks in between. Those little town lost in the crease of the paper, the one's the Infamous Winchester's had never needed to stop in, fortunately, but had anyway.

It was in those little folds of their life that Dean fell in love, lost in himself until Sam had handed him that map and said _Where are we?_ and threw Dean for a loop.

Hell, _where were they?_

Because he didn't know where to start, or where these feelings ended, and the map had felt so vast, unraveled across the dash, but every wrinkle was familiar in a way that meant they'd been smoothed over before, and he was still lost in the fading ink on his fingertips.  

Navigating how he loved Sam made him feel the insignificance of the town lost under the crumpled corner, but also the incomprehensible volume of 48 states filled with 12 years of memories, and some marks in sharpie, and that little grease stain on the back, and maybe love was not something to be measure with a map, because a map was limited to what was known and what Dean felt was uncharted.

That thought hit him like a 787 Jumbo Jet, crushing bones and grinding his breathing to a halt.   _Love_ and _Sammy_ had always occupied a similar space in his head, but suddenly this littl _e In_ and _With_ had snuck in between those two, and they looked pretty settled, like they had been there a long time. Like little army men standing in line.

Letting the map slip from his fingers, Dean wondered not _where_ that that change had happened so fluidly, but rather _when._

He swept his hand through rough spikes of hair— little ink smudges smearing themselves on his forehead, leaving their own little towns behind, nestled between the highways of forehead wrinkles and cities of freckles— and breathed.

***

Maybe it was when he was handed the bundle for the first time outside of a Kansas hospital room.

He had been sitting outside of the nondescript doorway for what felt like a lifetime. Nothing moved, just the occasional passing of a nurse who would give him a practiced grimace and move on. There were more important things here than a bored child waiting impatiently outside a hospital room. Even when the door opened and a weary, red-eyed Dad stepped out holding something against his chest, no one paid them any more attention. Dean didn’t understand why they had to come to a place like this to get his new brother.

Everything had seemed so dead. The cream-colored walls. The white cloth wrapped around the object in his father's hands. The weary surgeons in their funny smelling uniforms. Even the hallway he sat in seemed frozen in time, muted sounds only barely leaking in from the outside world.

“Dean, meet Samuel.”

His father's voice sounded hoarse, like the time he had screamed at Dean for walking into the road without holding someone’s hand. That had been scary, and Dean had no wish to go through that again. It made his blood run cold as ice, because for Dad to sound like this meant that something was wrong.

And then the bundle was weighing heavy in his arms and he realized that nothing was wrong.

Nothing could possibly be wrong because the warmth that his baby brother radiated spread through him like liquid fire. It didn’t burn like real flames did, but was more like the comforting heat that surrounded him on a cool summer night, tucked tightly under his Thundercats sheets. A sanctuary from the chilly harshness of reality. The bundl- no, Samuel-- thumped in time to the pulsing in his chest. He realized with faint shock that his heartbeat matched his baby brother's beat-for-beat, like an oiled machine whose pistons pumped perfectly in sync. A fragile machine, made of glass and diamonds, but a working, beautiful machine like Daddy's car. He could feel the monotony of the the walls fissure and shartter around him, because there was finally something in this bland hospital worth noticing.

And suddenly life burst through the cracks, filling Dean's world with color and sounds and _Sammy–_

Car horns sounded faintly, his mother spoke softly from behind the door, nurses bustled noisily down the hall. Heart monitors beeped steadily, but not one single one matched that which pulsed under the thin skin of his wrists. Sam shifted and wiggled weakly in Dean's arms, but was not quite strong enough to break from his firm but tender grasp.

Not strong enough to fight, not strong enough to face the world. Not strong enough to survive on his own.

In that instant, Dean made a vow. Not something he could really pin down with words, just a tug in his stomach full of heat that burned as much as it soothed.  Before it was ever drilled into him by his grief-ridden father. Before life was suddenly filled with more than monsters in the closet.

He wanted to protect Sam. As long as there was a Dean, he would be there to protect his Sammy.

Because that's what big brothers should do.

His baby brother’s hand had reached up from his cotton prison, small compared to the seemingly vast oath Dean had just made to no one in particular. Wrinkly fingers searching. He'd let that small hand close around his own pinky, feeling the strength that would grow there some day.

 _Not strong enough, though._ They gripped tightly around his own finger. Almost as if Sam were accepting Dean's protection. _Pinkie Promise, Dean._

Dean's heart jumped out of sync when green-hazel eyes opened and shone wet and glistening in the dimly lit hallway. It made his younger brother seem so fragile, a splash of color against a world of white, threatening to be washed away. He let his pulse fall back into a complacent rhythm once more —the one that matched Sam's— and stared deep into those disks of color. They shone bright and wide, like a baby doe's, but did not break from Dean's. Sealing the agreement with a gentle squeeze of his own pinkie —terrified of hurting such a delicate creature— Dean placed Sam's hand back inside the swath.

Sam just gurgled and looked up at his protector with a baby-like innocence mixed with the stubborn —albeit, toothless—grin of a Winchester.

"Ya' think we should keep him, kiddo?" His father asked, no more weariness in his voice, only open affection. The question was jovial but Dean put on the most soldier-like face he knew of and puffed out his chest. Sure, he probably looked ridiculous, carrying a baby and jutting his chin out like that, but if that was what was needed to keep Sammy safe, then he would never stop. There was no room for argument in his answer that Sam was coming with them.

"Yes sir."

Mom and Dad even let him hold Samuel for the entire car ride home, talking in whispered tones about them. Neither corrected him when he spoke quietly, to no one in particular, "Sammy. You're definitely a Sam."

Mary laughed.

***

Although, he guesses it could have been the first time Dean taught Sam how to ride a bike.

“De?” Dean had glanced up to see Sam looking up at him with watery blue-green eyes framed by messy brown hair.

He only raised his eyebrows in an affirmation, a clear sign to continue.

“What if I fall?” Sam asked shakily. Both of his little brother’s hands rested on the handlebars uneasily, flexing and relaxing rapidly the same way his own would before a dangerous hunt. The motion reminded him that he was all alone with Sam this weekend, Dad off tracking a werewolf nest too dangerous to bring along Dean.   

"I'll be there to catch you kiddo. Don't you think big strong six-year-olds should know how to ride without training wheels?" He flashed his best grin, the one that showed off a lot of teeth and hell lot more charm. It worked on everyone it seemed, as little dimples indented on Sammy’s cheeks. Same smile as his own, just a little bit more sincerity behind it because, honestly? Dean was _terrified_ that Sam was going to fall. _What if he fell and bumped his head? Or rode into the street and got hit by a car? What if--_

"How old were you when you rode without trainers Dean?" Sam’s voice had cut into his careening imagination with an audible ‘pop’. Sammy was looking up at him with wide curious orbs.

This was better. Much better when his head was full of Sam’s bright eyes and gap toothed smile than with what his mind was conjuring up. All those what if's swimming dangerously close to Dean's panic button.

He had felt an overwhelming urge to be closer to Sam anyway, so he walked over from his seat on the curb and rustled Sam's hair. "Not too much younger than you Sammy. It was scary, and I didn’t have anyone to teach me so I got a few shiners of my own, but you’ve got it easy. You’ve got me." He said cockily, with just the right amount of affection leaking through.

Dean let his hand sift through his brother’ soft curls reassuringly. _Yeah, this is what normal families do on weekends. Not hunt ghouls while camping out in a different motel each week. Or having to scrape money from anywhere I could just to afford a hand-me-down bike for Sammy’s birthday._ "I'll hold the bars for a little bit while you get your balance, then I'll let go." Dean continues softly. The fear flashes over Sam's feature momentarily until he reassures him that, "I'll be right next to you the whole time."

Sam still looked a little dubiously at the bike beneath him, like the metal monstrosity was plotting his downfall.

Dean reached behind his neck and dragged the twine he knew rested there over gel-spiked hair. "Here. If it can protect me, it'll probably work just fine for you." The gold pendant flashed in the sun, dangling between his fingers like the most expensive diamond necklace in the world. Dean resisted the urge to clutch at his sternum, where it suddenly felt surprisingly empty.

“Wow, really Dean? You’re the best!” Sam beamed. His hair swept into his eyes when he makes a grab at the necklace. He blew it away with a slight puff of air, only to have it settle back down onto his eyelashes. His smile was a mile wide, necklace resting too low on his chest, and ears sticking out from behind that mane, and damn it if that's not the cutest thing Dean's ever seen.

They ran around the abandoned parking lot until the sky darkened, Dean chasing after Sammy once his little brother felt comfortable pedaling without Dean mother-hening. Both were covered with sweat and their cheeks ached. Showers were in order when they finally dragged themselves back into the motel. Sam won first shower by crushing Dean's finger scissors with a dirty little fist.

He pretended to be upset.

Nothing interesting was on tv, so he opted to lay half-awake on the bed counting pockets of mold on the ceiling. Thinking idly _that one looks like a windigo. And that one's definitely the bat sign._ He hadn't even noticed the pattering of water stopping until a heavy weight dropped itself on his chest, leaving a damp patch through his shirt. Something was struggled over his head. When he felt the cold bite of metal on his collarbone, Dean drifted to sleep with one hand twisted in Sam's wet curls.

***

Dean thinks it maybe could have been the first night spent gazing at the stars, perched on the Impala’s hood, Sam's eyes fixed on the sky.

The first and last time he'd ever been at a meteor shower, and Dean hadn't even been watching the streaking lights. Sam had assured him they were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Dean had disagreed.

Looking back, he guesses that possibly could have started this whole Sam infatuation thing.

But that was highly unlikely.

***

Honestly, Dean didn’t know when he fell in love with Sam. When loving crossed over that line into hopelessly, irrevocably _in love with_.

On the endless field divided into right and wrong, he felt that there should have been a warning track, riddled with _keep off_ and _beware, dead end_ signs, that would have stood brightly vivid beside where his morals lay in his mind, full of sharp stones that stung as he walked that fine line.

Instead, there was nothing. No advisory angel perched upon his shoulders shouting just how blurred the ground and horizon had become. Not knowing whether he was falling or flying into love, spiralling out of control.

It had just been so easy, to sink into the comfort that Sam provided.  They’d always fit so well together --speaking volumes with glances, understanding each other better than themselves-- that stepping over that line had been effortless. When Sam could be standing with open arms and a goofy grin on the other side, not any hellfire could have kept him away, even if he had been aware of how close he was getting to shattering his own ethics, and society’s own ideas of right. It had only ever been them, even with John acting as a pay-by-the-hour father. They had been raised to rely on no one but each other.

“So where you think we’re going?” Sam turned a lazy smile his way, words molasses slow, whole body relaxed into the seat while one hand hung by fingertips from the leather steering wheel.

“I dunno, Sammy. Where do you wanna go?” He asked, unsure for the first time in his entire life of his place in Sam’s life. The map crinkled under his fingers, a quiet symphony of the places they’d been calling them back.

“How about we just keep driving and see where we end up,” Sam said.

Something in his little brother’s voice gave him away. Sam may be smart as a whip but he couldn’t act his way out of a wet paper basket. Maybe it was the wrinkle of his eyes that said he was in on a joke that Dean didn’t know, or it was the fondness in his voice —saccharine sweet— but it _would_ be just like Sam to figure what the hell was going on in Dean’s head before Dean even could. God he loved that little shit.

Sam reached his free hand across the bench seat. Little fingers tip tapping across the distance between them, muscles flexing across the back of his hands like piano keys.

“God, you’re such a girl.” He said, but reached out to let his fingers slot into the empty spaces between Sam’s anyway.

A smug smile crept across his brother’s face, along with a none-too-subtle blush. “Yeah but you wanna _kissss mee,_ you think my face is _prettyy,”_ Sam sing-songed.

“I don’t even wanna know how you figured it out, boy wonder,” he said gruffly. Dean could feel his own face heating up as embarrassment settled low in his gut.

“You talk in your sleep”

Dean wasn’t sure why he was so scandalized. His own body giving up his secrets like that, how dare it.

“Stop listening to me in my sleep.”

Sam turned his eyes back to road as they came up on a red light. His fingers squeezed Dean’s gently, an apology. “Only if you stop saying such interesting things.”

And oh Dean was gonna strangle him, pretty face or not. He was gonna put slime in all of his socks, and then watch him have to squelch around all day with them-

Sam leaned over after the car had rolled to a stop behind the line of cars at the light and laid one on him. Just a dry brush of lips, held for a second, and then pulled back like it’d never happened.

“There. Now you can stop dreaming about it, Lover Boy. Some of us have to get beauty sleep to keep our pretty faces, and your ramblings been interrupting it.”

Dean was shocked silent for about three seconds before he exploded.

“You call that a kiss? I’ve had better in games of truth or dare in middle school. Could have at least slipped me some tongue, lord knows your mouth is big enough, how much it’s always blabbing on.” He waved around with his right hand, putting appropriate emphasis on how much blabbing he usually has to endure on a daily basis, the left one still firmly trapped by Sam’s fingers.

“Guess you’ll just have to show me later,” Sam said with a meaningful squeeze of their hands.

They rode the rest of the way to the nearest motel in anxious silence.

***

And if Dean talked again in his sleep, Sam didn’t even have to roll over to poke him in the armpit and shut him up. He could do it with both eyes closed. 


End file.
